The Ripper of Blossom Valley

by S D Christopher

  I’ll never have a little munchkin leaping into my arms when I get home from work, telling me how happy he is to see me. I’ll never see her stick figure drawings of us holding hands, smiling at the sun. He’ll never steal my seat as I’m about to rest my achy feet. I’ll never get to hear her say, “I love you, mommy.”

  The only “I love you’s” I get are from Fudge, and they come from a different place. They’re not unconditional, pure, or innocent. They’re more lusty, playful, protective. I should’ve noticed before I got sick, but sometimes I feel like he treats me more like his dependent than a life partner.

  "Good morning, Maiko. Hey, I like your hair!" Sharon is the first one in the lab after me, as usual. I've had purple streaks in my hair for a week. I guess she didn't notice.

  "Thanks." This and a weak smile are all I can manage.

  "How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?"

  Sigh.

  "A bedpan, maybe? ...Nah, I'll just use the restroom." I've discovered that humor is the best way to divert attention away from my pity party, and judging by how hard Sharon's laughing, even my silly jokes are getting the kid glove treatment, like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard in her life.

  I walk down the hall, Sharon's guffaws still ringing in my ears. "You're too much, Maiko," she yells down the hall. Too much what, I wonder.

  ----------

  Deciding to stay late one night, I say goodbye to Sharon, who's usually the last to leave. Before she leaves, I assure her that I'm doing alright and don't need anything. I'm not completely lying. I’ve actually felt better today than I have in awhile, since before I knew about the cancer. I haven't changed my medication or anything else lately, so I'm a little curious, but not gonna question it.

  I want to use the extra feel good time to examine some of the data I've gathered from the mice over the last few weeks. It's remarkable, but this batch has lived much longer than expected. The brick dust has been working almost magically. The little guys have been kicking around quite healthfully for five months now.

  At first, we tried it on just one model, a double transgenic mouse, who was at the point of barely moving. It was a long shot, and we were simply wondering if it would have any effect at all. It startled us, to say the least, when he started pepping up and walking around within a few hours. We hypothesized that the added copper from CuATSM was enough to outfit both SOD1 and COX with the metal, allowing the mouse to survive.

  As we expanded our sample size and variety of models, it continued to work like a charm, and got this nerdy group of scientists more excited than we'd been since Curiosity's sky crane soft landing on Mars. Now, months later, the results have shown little cause for concern. I say little, because we've noticed a worrying trend that we can't explain. Only while being observed, the mice have grown lethargic, almost as if the brick dust just stopped working and their symptoms had returned. But later, when the lights were turned out and everyone had gone home for the night, they were back to their chipper cheese-eating selves. "Weird" is the highly technical scientific term we're using for it at the moment.

  Then they would be fine for days, before the same observations occurred; always while some of my colleagues and I were observing them, but only every few days or so. We dismissed it as possibly impure samples of the treatment, and decided to take a wait and see approach, since it seemed to be working overall.

  One thing I haven't brought up to my coworkers, because I couldn't explain it and still can't, is that whenever we observed the mice regressing while I was handling them, I would feel... better. It sounds weird every time I think about it, but there's no denying it. At first, I just thought that my focus on the mice pushed my own pain out of the forefront of my mind. But the more often it's occurred, the more convinced I've become. After handling the mice, I feel much better, for a few days at least, not just in the moment. And they bounce back within a few hours. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I'm some kind of energy vampire. But I do know better, and that's not something that really exists, except in the minds of sci-fi/fantasy geeks like me and a few thousand other weirdos, maybe.

  So it's a coincidence, surely. But something nags at my analytical side. Nothing has changed about my treatment in months, and according to my doctors, I'm not improving. I wonder if the radiation and medication is scrambling my brain, so I concoct an admittedly brilliant plan to confirm that I'm overthinking all of this.

  I walk to the cages that house our control subjects, and slowly open the door. They naturally think I'm here to feed them, so they huddle close. "Little do you know that I'm here to feed on you, hahaha!" Ew, gross, that didn't come out at all like it sounded it my head.

  I hold one of the cute little guys in my hands, stroking his soft fur, watching as he sniffs and nibbles my violet-painted fingernails.

  For awhile, nothing. Then, as I'm about to put him back in his cage and leave satisfied that I'm not, in fact, going mad, he stumbles down flat, in my hand. I poke at him, flick his tiny little ear, rub his belly, but nothing. Barely any response from a mouse who not moments before was peppy as a pup.

  Weirded out, I most indelicately place him back in the cage. His friends sniff him, but leave his prone body be. He can't have just keeled over from a few nibbles at perfectly harmless nail polish... right?

  Okay, think rationally, Maiko. That was just an anomaly, an anecdotal example. There's no way I'm actually affecting the health of these mice just by handling them. That's insane!

  An hour and a cage full of lethargic rodents later, I'm less convinced. To a man, er, mouse, every single completely healthy model that I touched looks like he or she belongs in the cages with our actual test subjects. I don't know what to think, but I can't deny the evidence right in front of my skeptical eyes.

  And forget what I'm seeing. What I'm feeling is even more telling. I feel as though there is no cancer growing inside of me. I'm sure it's still there, and I'm doubly sure that it won’t be long before all of my symptoms return like one of those awesome cats that finds its way home from a thousand miles away, except way less awesome than that. But right now, in this moment, I feel more alive than I have in a year, when my growth was in its earliest stages and not yet wreaking any havoc on my system.

  What does this mean? How is this even happening? What kind of freak am I, to be able to do this? Am I really doing this, or has the cancer spread to my brain, and I'm imagining all of this? Shoot, I need to get outta here, get home in my big comfy bed and hope I'm just dreaming all this. When I wake up, I'll feel crappy again, the mice will be fine, and I can get on with what's left of my abbreviated life. Ah, the things we wish for sometimes.

  ----------

  The next morning, I lament how good I feel, and worry about the mice whose souls I stole last night. Souls? Life force? Energy? Whatever it was, it feels awesome. And I feel terrible for feeling awesome. I wonder if I really hurt any of the little guys. Despite my concerns for their well-being, when I arrive at the lab, they're all fine and motoring around in their cage. Well, that's a relief.

  I ask the team to let me refrain from handling the mice any further. Since this was suggested by some of the team soon after my diagnosis anyway, they were all pleased as punch. I then, of course, had to assure everyone that I was fine, and didn't need anything.

  It's not as though my cancer's contagious, or that I can suddenly catch ALS from the mice. But my endocrinologist did advise me that I can become more susceptible to other illnesses that the little buggers might also be exposed to. So it's a win-win. They don't get me sicker, and I don't steal their mojo.

  Later that evening at dinner with Fudge, he comments on how chipper I've been lately. "It's nice to see you back to your normal bubbly self. I hope this means things are on the upswing. I miss this Maiko." Frankly, so do I. "Are the meds working better or something?"

  "Yeah, that must be it." Dang, I should know better than to fib to Fudge. He reads me so well. All it takes is one curious look from him, and I'm pra
ctically spilling the beans. "Baby, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  Well, that got his attention. "Try me," he says, eyebrow raised, fork down, "I'd believe more than you think." He can always tell when I'm lying--it's really annoying, actually--so why not? I launch into the whole story. I fully expect him to laugh his cute little butt off, but instead, he surprises me, as he has so often before.

  "Interesting." He takes a bite of his tuna casserole, and chews slowly, staring at nothing, intently. "And the little fuckers didn't die?"

  Again with the cursing like a teenage boy. "No, like I said, they were up and at 'em again in a few hours. Even the sick ones."

  "Interesting," he says again, and this time it has me a little nervous, off balance. "Babe, you can't tell anyone else about this. Not a soul."

  Not quite the reaction I was expecting. "Okay ..why?"

  "Two reasons. One, as my reaction may have given away, I've seen crazy shit like this before, and believe me when I say, it never ends well. Two, others won't be as easily convinced. They'll think you're either making it up, or the cancer's making you lose your damn mind."

  "Yeah, I thought I was going all wacko, even after seeing it for myself. I can't imagine anyone besides you taking me at my word instead of just throwing me in the looney bin." But what was that first point about? "What do you mean, though? What have you seen before?"

  Fudge takes a deep breath, and exhales for what seems like an eternity. "Doll, I've seen shit working on the force that'll turn you white. You wouldn't believe me if I told ya."

  I lean forward, arms folded on the table, snarky smile in full force. "Oh, I don't know. Try me. I might believe more than you think." He laughs like he hasn't in awhile. My good mood always rubs off on him. Then again, so do the bad ones. We play off each other like some kind of feedback loop. I've never seen anything quite like it.

  "Alright, well...I've seen people who...sense the world differently, let's say." My look gives away the fact that I cannot, in fact, believe it. "Ha, you've got an awful poker face, babe. I'm serious. Not like ESP or telekinesis, that's all bullshit. I'm talking a person who can see things from much further away than anyone else, like a bird; someone who can hear things at frequencies that only dogs can hear; another who can smell emotions. You must have some kind of enhanced sense of touch. Some ignorant optimist types would consider these 'superpowers' or some shit like that. But believe me, these people didn't see it that way, especially when they're more of a hindrance in their daily lives than a help… or if the wrong people found out."

  The wrong people? "Like who?"

  "People who don't understand that not everyone is exactly alike in how they perceive the world or interact with it. People who are threatened by others who can do things they shouldn't be able to."

  It sounds like he's an expert on this subject...but how? "Where are these people with...enhanced senses or whatever now?"

  "The few I know of are either locked away in prison or a mental institution. Or dead. I told you...it never ends well." He takes my hand across the table. "This is why I want you to promise me you won't tell anyone else. Not any of your scientist buddies, no matter how curious you are about how it works. Not even your friends or family."

  "I don't know how this works, if it just makes me feel better, or if it's actually healing me. I have too many questions to keep this under wraps completely."

  "I know, but I'll help you try to figure it all out, just the two of us. We can research it, see if there have been other similar cases, experiment like you white coats like to do. I just want to be cautious as fuck about this." This is as solemn as I've ever seen him. I trust his words completely. "I don't want to lose you. You're too important to me."

  That's the most fudging romantic thing he's ever said to me. I stand up, walk around the table, and give him a great big bear hug. We embrace for so long that my legs start to go numb. I sit on his lap and plant a long kiss on the big lug. We don't say another word the rest of the evening.

  I didn’t love Fudge’s suggestion of experimenting further with the mice, but he’s always been very persuasive, to the point where I sometimes don’t even recall what he said that convinced me, or why I went along with it in the first place. In this case, neither of us could think of a better way to figure out how this whole thing works, so against my better instincts, I went along with it.

  To my relief, a few weeks and many experiments later, I’m able to finally convince him that that draining mice, healthy or not, isn't cutting it. It's not helping me as much as it first did.

  "What about people?"

  "I think they're pretty neat. Especially this one right here," I say, as I poke him in the chest.

  I love it when he rolls his eyes. "I mean, what if you have the same effect on people that you do with these mice?"

  I hadn't thought of that, and now that he has, I'm not a fan of the idea. "Fudge, I hope you're not suggesting--"

  "No, I mean me. Let's see if you can feed off of me."

  Surely, he can't be serious. "Baby, that's really sweet of you to offer, but unless you've forgotten, I touch you all the time, and we've..." Why am I getting shy all of a sudden? "...we've slept together a few times since this all started, and you haven't come down with a case of the sads so far."

  He rubs his chin. I'm sure he's thought of that, too. "True, but you haven't really tried yet, either, right? Maybe you can affect people, and it just takes longer, or more concentration, than it does for a little mouse."

  This is crazy. "You really want to be a guinea pig? What if something goes wrong? What if I hurt you?" Secretly, I also think, what if this doesn't work at all? Back to square one with me.

  "You haven't hurt the little cheese-eaters. I don't think you'll hurt me, either. I'm pretty tough, ya know." He's totes adorbs when he pretends to be all macho.

  I know how tough he is, of course. I know the stories of his gunfights with some of the more deplorable members of our society. And I've seen him handle himself expertly in a bar fight, though I'll be happy to never experience that kind of excitement again.

  "I don't know. I'm not all warm and fuzzy about this. It's too risky."

  He takes my hand, gently, lovingly. "Let me worry about that, doll. The bigger risk is not doing anything, and watching you rot away. We'll go slow at first. If it starts working, just let go. We'll see how long it takes for me to recover, make sure I don't turn into that monstrosity Lord Vanderbilt or who the fuck ever."

  I giggle. "Voldemort, silly. Fine, if you insist." Once Fudge makes up his mind, there's little chance of changing it. "When do we start?"

  "No time like the present."

  I stare at him, in shock. "...Now?" He simply smiles, leads me into the bedroom, and stands near the side of the bed. I'm sure he can sense my nervousness as he places my hands on his chest. He lets go, and nods, winks, and smirks. I wonder if he thinks this will work, either.

  For a few seconds, I stare at him blankly, not knowing quite what to do, or if I should try to do anything. Deer, meet headlights. After more than a few awkward seconds, I begin to pull away, "This is silly--" but Fudge grabs my arms, firmly but gently, presses my hands back on his chest, caresses my arms, and seems to stare into my soul, determined to trade some of his life for mine.

  I close my eyes and focus, on the nothingness at first. A few minutes go by, and I feel nothing. I open my eyes, and see that he's closed his, too. I examine the salt and pepper whiskers on his scruffy chin, the wrinkles on his neck betraying his age, the crow's feet beside his eyes, merely hinting at the wisdom contained within this man I've fallen in love with, despite our disparity in age. Closing my eyes once more, I focus on his heartbeat, quite healthy for someone fifteen years my senior.

  Then, it happens. His heart skips. He gasps. My eyes spring open, my heart leaps. I wrench my hands away as he falls onto the bed. "Fudge!" I reach for him, then recoil, wondering if touching him again will make it worse. Does it only work if I'm concentrating? N
o idea, so I tug at his pants instead, like that'll make a difference. "Fudge! ...baby?"

  His eyes spring open and meet mine. He must sense my panic. "It's alright...I'm alright." He's lying for my benefit, since he's not moving much. I throw my arms around him, and thankfully, he's able to hug me back. That's enough experimenting for one day.

  ----------

  I refused to try again for a few weeks, even though Fudge seemed to recover quickly and side effect-free. I was even hesitant to make contact with him at all, worried that any intimacy would turn into a drug commercial disclaimer, "Maiko's Touch may cause nausea, constipation, vomiting, hives, internal bleeding, restless leg syndrome, and death." But we soon hypothesized that I really did have to concentrate in order for it work. With the mice, we figured, I was focused on studying them, but normal, casual contact alone wouldn't trigger it. Thankfully, intimate contact turned out to be safe, too. After repeated assurances that he was fine, and a somewhat anticipated decline in my own health only about a week after our first experiment, a roller coaster ride which continued to baffle my endocrinologist, I agreed to try it again, and a little longer this time, at Fudge's insistence.

  The results were similar, which was encouraging and worrying at the same time. I felt better for a longer stretch of time, but it took Fudge a little longer to recover, hours instead of minutes. But again he assured me, once he seemed certain himself, that there were no lingering ill effects.

  Since this second attempt kept me going for a few weeks and it took him out of commission for a few hours, we decided not to press our luck with longer experiments. This became our routine, for awhile at least. Every few weeks, when I started to feel nauseated or especially lethargic, he would lie in bed with me, take my hands in his, and we would lie together until I felt I had taken enough, never longer than the time before. I got really good at timing it, not even needing the alarm on my stopwatch app. Want to make sure you don't steal too much of your lover's soul? There's an app for that!